


Let the hunt begin

by BlazeRiddle



Series: CatLock [2]
Category: Original Work, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: bloody crime scene, graphinc crime scene, tagged mature for graphic crime scene description
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-26
Updated: 2015-02-26
Packaged: 2018-03-15 09:33:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3442190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlazeRiddle/pseuds/BlazeRiddle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has murdered. Someone is in Baker street. Stuff happens.<br/>(Continuation of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3265109"> In the morning </a>)</p><p>((Tagged M for graphic crime scene))</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let the hunt begin

**Author's Note:**

> so. I'm making this into a series, I think.

"Oh, my god." John looked at the crime scene before him; a small one-room apartment, not bigger than the living room, that doubled as a bedroom, and a small kitchen. It was covered in the red hues of what was supposed to be inside a human being, the pieces that were laying around the room enough to make up a person, shredded to pieces. It looked like some bomb exploded in the room, miraculously leaving all the furniture intact but leaving the person inside in pieces. Vaguely, it reminded him of bright sunlight, burning heat, loose sand under his feet.

A hand on his shoulder pulled him out of his thoughts and he looked aside to see Sherlock frowning at him.

"Are you all right?" The detective asked. John imagined ears flicking worriedly on top of the man's head, could easily read the question in the man's eyes. Now that he _knew_ , it was so much easier to read the unreadable man. He swallowed and nodded firmly, shaking free the images of dry sand. The hand of his shoulder squeezed a bit at it, and John knew Sherlock read him as easily as he now read the detective.

"I'm fine." The hand rubbed his shoulder for a moment before retreating. "What are we looking at?" He asked. "This is... Messy. Worse than anything I've encountered in London."

"In London." Sherlock repeated absent-mindedly, stepping out into the room and investigating one of the pieces. "This wasn't a bomb." He walked around the mess and let his eyes scan what was left of the victim. He stopped to kneel in a corner and picked up a piece with his gloved hands and smelled it, his nose nearly twitching.

"What is it, then?" John asked, looking at the spectacle from the doorway. He watched as Sherlock showed him the piece. It was ripped apart, shredded in a strange way that was vaguely familiar.

"Claw marks." Sherlock answered the unasked question. "There's a burning smell, too, but it's probably too feint for you to notice."

"Okay." John nodded. "What does that mean?"

Sherlock frowned and placed the piece back down. "As far as I know, it means we can narrow it down to one person." He suddenly perked up and snapped off the gloves, walking past John and binning them swiftly. "I need to make a phone call."

*

"There's a community for m- people like me." Sherlock explained later, curled up on the couch with his head in John's lap and John's hand in his hair like he had favoured for the past weeks, ever since John had found out. John indulged him, his big, lazy cat, simply because it calmed him, too, playing with the dark curls. He thoroughly hated the word mutant, though, with every fibre of his body, because it emphasised the _freak_ status he knew others had given the detective. Sherlock tried to avoid the term after he noticed John's fury.

"We're supposed to stick together, in a sense." He had closed his eyes, was repressing the purr that wanted to escape with all his might. "The Community makes sure this whole thing stays secret, so none of us will be used as guinea pigs." Sherlock brought his hand up and traced the seam of John's trousers at his knee. "It was funded by someone with the ability to bend fire. It's complicated, but if anyone did this, it's them."

John nodded, his hand tightening in the detective's hair momentarily. "How can you be sure?"

Sherlock smiled sadly and shook his head. "Those were claw marks." He explained calmly. "Some of those pieces were burned. Everyone in the community knows who that could be."

"They're famous, then?"

Sherlock looked up at John with serious eyes. "They are fire and flame and cat." He said, a growl in his voice that made John wonder if there was more behind it all. "John, if this comes out, people will think we're monsters. " He frowned up at John before jumping up and starting to pace the room. "It's why we keep ourselves a secret, because bad press like this would turn us all into _monsters_."

John watched as his friend got worked up, and took a deep breath. "Sherlock-" when the man didn't react, he rolled his eyes. "Sherlock!" The detective turned around to face him, and John pointed to his chair. "Sit." He ordered. "I'll make us tea, and then we're going to sort things out." He stood and moved to the kitchen. "You said there is a community, correct? Did you contact them?"

"Not yet." Sherlock slumped into the chair and sighed. "They would protect their founder if she did do something."

"Maybe you should contact them." John reasoned, preparing the mugs as he let the water boil. "I think they can be reasonable."

"How can you know?" Sherlock questioned. "You never really met any of them."

"Neither did you." John reminded the detective. Sherlock had told him he'd met a member of the community once, briefly, after he'd hunted them down because of a string of murders that turned out to have nothing to do with them and, according to the man he'd met, had 'proven himself a man of great character'. Sherlock had at the time gladly accepted the alterations to his body, even though he didn't really know the man who had made the offer.

"True." Sherlock rolled his head on his neck. "Maybe it is worth a try." He accepted the tea moments later and stretched his long legs out in a sprawl. "I'll contact them in the morning."

"Don't postpone it, Sherlock." John warned. He sometimes felt like he was living with a teenager, but Sherlock's oddities did nothing but add to the ball of affection in his stomach. "It might solve the case."

"Or get us killed." Sherlock lazily grinned at the doctor. "They can do more than you think."

John quirked a brow. " _'We're all around you'_ " He said in a spooky voice. " _'They follow'_ "

Sherlock shrugged. "I believe you're mixing up the Community and Mycroft."

*

There was a thud. John opened his eyes and stared at his alarm clock. Nearly three in the morning. There was a scuffle above him. Was there someone on the roof? He sat up and moved his hand to the drawer of the nightstand without turning on his lights, finding the weapon there and checking it over in the dark before slipping out of the bed. He heard another scuffle, and then there was the creak of the window in the living room that he'd needed to oil for weeks, now.

Someone was in the flat.

He sneaked through the door and managed to move almost-silently down the stairs, straining to catch any sign of a sound or a moving shadow from the living room. Sherlock's door creaked, and a momentary panic came over John. _They couldn't hurt Sherlock. He wouldn't allow it._ He rushed down the stairs, threw the door open, pointed his gun at the shadow he found on its other side.

"Ah, doctor Watson." A voice sounded, familiar like a stranger's face in the tube can be. "I was wondering when you would stop stalling on the stairs." The fireplace ignited and cast the room in a soft light. There was a figure standing in front of the fireplace, someone even smaller than John and wearing something resembling a motor suit, and Sherlock was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, ears perking out from between dark curls. John put his finger on the trigger.

"Who _the hell_ are you?" John asked, feeling his finger tighten on the trigger. "You come in here, break into our house, then pretend that you have every right to. _Why_?"

The person pulled the helmet off to reveal a faintly familiar young face with two old eyes shining in the light of the flames. As she unzipped the top of the suit a bit, she revealed a chain with two golden rings hanging from it. "I am the person you and Mr Holmes accuse of killing whomever you accuse me of killing. And I came to set things right."

"What, you came to kill us, too?" John sneered, finger tightening. "Why shouldn't I shoot you?"

There was a small smile playing around her lips. "You can shoot me if you want. I'm not stopping you. It won't matter, and it won't stop the killer from being out there." She seemed completely unimpressed with the gun, completely at ease with the life-threatening situation. Calmly as if talking about the weather, she turned to the pyjama-clad consulting detective. "You're Sherlock Holmes, correct?"

Sherlock nodded, frowning, one ear twitching. "Yes."

"I'd like to consult you."

A shot rang out, and the woman looked down at her chest, mildly surprised, and Sherlock just looked shocked. There was a hole in her shirt, and a gust of gas travelled up out from it. The woman frowned.

"Might want to step back a bit, the gasses can be toxic." She said dryly. "Ready to put the gun down now, Dr Watson?"

John lowered the gun, baffled. " _What just happened_?"

The woman shrugged. "I'm not completely human, Dr Watson. That's all what there is to it." She turned to Sherlock again. "I made a miscalculation and there is a murderer on the loose. Will you take my case?"

"What-"

"I have money to pay you, if that is the issue. I need to have this man off the street."

There was another shot, aimed at her head this time, The molten liquid dripped down her nose before sizzling and fuming up into the air. She rolled her eyes and turned to John again.

"Yes?"

"Who _the bloody hell_ are you?" John growled, fuming himself. "How the _bloody hell_ do we know you're not here to kill us?"

"I am known as Phoenix." The woman calmly explained. "I'm here because a mutant killed a man and it is my job to protect the Community. This matter needs to be resolved before the press gets wind of it, because it will ruin us. If I wanted to kill _y'all,_ Doctor Watson, I would've done it by now, because I'm capable. Will you take the case?"

John frowned. "How much are you paying?" He asked, still mildly furious. Phoenix looked around, assessing the flat.

"Well, I would have to pay man-hours for a detective, a doctor and a soldier, money for your silence, possibly equipment and-"

"We'll do it." Sherlock rumbled, interrupting the train of thought. "No charge. This affects us- me, too."

Phoenix fell silent and stared at Sherlock for a long time. His ear flicked.

"You would do that?" She sounded more surprised than when John shot her. "You don't strike me as someone to care for all this much."

Sherlock swallowed. "This concerns me, too." He repeated. John, finally come to his senses, nodded, too.

"For the community, we will." He agreed. She nodded, once, murmured a quiet _thank you_ and pulled out her phone, pressing a single button.

" _Swan_?" She asked into the device. "He's willing to help. Won't need to send funds. ... I will. Bye." She disconnected and straightened her back just enough to become bossy and business-like.

"Let's catch a killer."

%MCEPASTEBIN%


End file.
